If PCP had a brain, it would have been completely blown from everything she had swallowed, injected, and snorted throughout the night. She had smoked no less than a dozen wet joints and cigarettes, and there was a fistful of them in the back pockets of her skinny jeans for sharing, and share she did, plucking out those boring old regular joints and regular cigarettes out of mortal's mouths so she could dip them in the 'waterbottle' she had tied to the front belt loop of her jeans, relight them, and then hand them back. Her other pockets held bits of herself twisted up in foil, which she poured into every drink and every mouth she could get her hands on. Her last available pocket was filled with a menagerie of pills, everything, really; everything fun. She alternated frantically between smoking, drinking, and dancing, cutting across the floor like a raging flood, her sweat-damp hair whipping around her like a tornado.
A mortal with his pants at his ankles pushed a glow stick down her shirt and drew a line down her cheek in highlighter and she laughed, pressing a clumsy kiss to his lips and a joint into his hand before drawing away to stand on the sidelines. It was just minutes later that she spotted GHB, slinking as always. PCP let out a delighted shriek and flung herself at his back, twining her skinny arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "'Enri!" She cackled, "Look at you! All better and here!"